Self
by Galad Estel
Summary: 'Soul. You wonder about yours. You remember your father mumbling something about the pursuit of power being as damaging as a dementor's kiss.' Percy Weasley contemplates his decision to leave his family and friends behind in his attempt to rise in the Ministry. Written for the QLC.


**AN: Round 11 Quiddich Competition League**

 **Prompt:** _ **"Rolling in the Deep"**_ **line 'Throw your soul through every open door'**

Throw up tonight's champagne and caviar over the bedside, three in the morning. Promise to never drink that much again, no matter how beautiful the glasses are or how many times your boss refills his goblet. But the churning light, the roaring diamonds were like a symphony, and you had been dream dancing. It's worth your yelping stomach. You'll just have to brew something up for the headache in the morning.

Note: rich man's food looks much the same as a poor man's when its been regurgitated.

\- o -

Your apartment is stuffy. You haven't been here all day. You didn't open the windows, because in the morning you thought it might rain. You open them now, and the night air is cool as it presses against your temple. Pour coffee from pan to cup. You still have work to do. Also, there are the bills to go over. Worry about the rent. You used your week's pay to buy robes for work, and you're not talking to your parents, so you don't have them to fall back on. Life is tricky. You're eighteen, homesick, love starved. Just keep telling yourself you've made the right decision. It's your father who's at fault, not you. He screamed, and he screamed, until you couldn't take it anymore. He was selfish anyway. Always putting his own interest before his family's. He kept working in that muggle department, instead of going up in the Ministry, getting more money, so that his children wouldn't be laughed at and scoffed at and forgotten at school. Yeah, you've definitely made the right decision. The Potter boy killed Diggory, an accident he couldn't accept, so he made up the You-Know-Who story. It's simple psychology.

\- o -

Soul. You wonder about yours. You remember your father mumbling something about the pursuit of power being as damaging as a dementor's kiss. But that's silly. You're only upset because Penelope broke up with you. You met in a coffee shop, the muggle side of London. 'You're killing me,' she said. 'You're turning into such a tosser, and I can't take it anymore. You've changed.' She didn't say much else, just bought a cinnamon bun and left, and your eyes trailed after her like some sick puppy, but you didn't get up and chase after her because you didn't want to look like a fool, you fool. Now she's gone too, and you have no one to talk to. Scrape together something for supper: sausage, lettuce, and canned pears.

Reminder: Go to the grocers after work.

\- o -

Through the window you see the drizzle turn into a thunderstorm. Umbridge is having you alphabetize files. She's bending over your desk, her heavy perfume giving you a headache. 'Don't you love the rain?' she asks, her voice high. You put another file into the J stack. 'It's lovely,' you say. She touches your shoulder, and you stiffen, though you don't know why. She slips out two D files and a K, tucks them under her arm. 'I need to look at these,' she says brightly. She strokes your cheek, and your backbone is a steel rod. Her hand is dry and covered in powder. You think her fingers will crumble into your face, but they pinch your skin instead. 'Lighten up, Weasley,' she says. 'You're just like your father.' 'I'm not,' you mumble under your breath, as she walks out. She turns smiling. 'Oh, but I didn't mean it as an insult,' she says. 'Your father is a good man. He's just stubborn and confused, but we'll turn him around, right?' She swirls the air with her free arm before leaving. You never see those files again.

\- o -

Every day you get out of work past five. The Ministry is so busy – they always have an excuse to keep you longer, but you don't mind, because you get larger wages staying overtime, and you have nothing to look forward to anyway once you leave. The apartment's dull with its drained sepia walls and off white ceiling, furnished with a dirty white coach, white table, and wooden chair. You think of decorating but decide instead to save up, find someplace cheerier. You'll make that your home, not this hole though. You couldn't care less about this hole. You kick a can across the room. Pop. You like it. Hardly had it at the Burrow. Sweet and fizzy but bad for your teeth, though you can always fix those with magic. Overall, you're pretending to be happy.

Note: Laundry does not clean itself. Do two loads tomorrow.

\- o -

Open up your own account at Gringotts. You're proud to hand over your hard-earned galleons to the goblins across the desk, satisfied with their surprise at the amount. You've been saving for that look, and there's a skip in your step when you use what's left in your wallet to take the bus home. It's worth it. Proving that a Weasley can earn a decent living. You eat leftover soup and pound cake. Payday is tomorrow. You feel alive for the first time in years. You look in the mirror, and you look nice, respectable. You could look up to you. Your face and nails are clean. Your robes are new and don't need patching. Mum would be proud, if you hadn't broken her heart. You've heard that Ron was made prefect. Surprised but overjoyed, you stay up until midnight, writing a letter of congratulations, also jotting in a warning about Potter. The Minister says Potter is unstable. Perhaps he didn't kill Diggory on accident after all. Perhaps it was intentional. You don't want to believe it, but it's possible. They say his uncle and aunt kept him under the stairs and abused him. Children treated like that often grow up to be sociopaths.

\- o -

Door – that's all you can think about, all you are. Rough wood, thin wood, splinters. Your ear aches. From straining so hard to make out the voices inside, from what it heard, from being banged when the door burst open. They didn't notice you when they came streaming out, their faces a rush of agitation. The Minister, Umbridge, all those important people, a fishy lot. Ugh, how could you have admired them? They're no better than Death Eaters! Enslaving muggles, demoting muggleborns, putting up anti-interblood marriage laws? You feel like vomit. You just wish you could expel yourself, spew yourself out, so you would be free, the part of you who isn't the do-as-he's-told Ministry man. You have to make a decision, take a stand, but it's a week later and you're taking away Umbridge's tea tray, spreading the Minister's lies. You should rest uneasy, but when night comes you're too exhausted. Somehow you will tear them up from within, somehow.

P.S. Ronald, don't listen to gits like me.


End file.
